


Cliché

by afractionof (greensunsky)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Stridercest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 04:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greensunsky/pseuds/afractionof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Dave Strider and at some point the lines between your dreams and reality have begun to blur.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cliché

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my best bro stridercascade who made this look all pretty and suggested a fitting song for this. 
> 
> Lyrics come from 'Last Call' by Mae.

_**“Scream, waking from a bad dream.** _   
_**Don't think anything is what it seems.** _   
_**Can't you figure out what this means?”** _

 

==>

 

The blood dripping over your lips is thick and heavy, the metallic tang bitter on your tongue and you can feel it coating the roof of your mouth but you don't care because fuck, he hit you hard and your head is spinning. Little spots of white spark at the corner of your vision and you let out a raspy laugh when you stumble backwards and land on your ass. You can hear him speaking but the sound is muffled by the ringing in your ears. The concern is clear though when his hand touches your cheek, gentle and lighter than you're used to, and he tips your head to the side. You feel him rifle through the hair at your temples, adding a little pressure here and there as he checks for anything to really worry over.

You must be okay though because as your vision starts to clear, you see him shake his head and he drops his hands.

“Fuck you,” he mutters and another laugh leaves your chest.

The second you'd ripped off his hat and twisted your fingers in his hair, you knew it'd be worth whatever hell you had to pay for it because his shoulders had frozen, his feet had gone still against the dusty roof and his jaw had fallen open. Really it'd just been a tiny parting of his lips, which was basically the same thing, but you could just imagine how his eyes had widened behind the dark lenses of his shades and his thoughts had slowed for that split second.

You'd never seen him break his cool like that before.

And it was for that simple fact it'd been worth the sharp pain that had blossomed in your jaw when he'd hit you. It'd been a pretty bitch move, catty as all hell. How many times had he told you that girls were the shit but you weren't 'packin’ around no worthwhile tits' so you better not hit like one?

You probably couldn't even begin to count how many times you'd heard that exact phrase.

You still weren't sure whether it was a compliment or an insult or either...

You'd put your money on the latter though. Bro wasn't really the type to throw out insults. He'd rather just crack your skull on the cement or with a broken beer bottle and he sure as fuck didn't count anyone out of a fight, tits or no.

There's a snap and you blink. Your eyes slip back into focus and he's frowning at you, fingers raised next to your ear.

“Don't fuckin’ zone out like that. Thought you might’a had a concussion.”

You just shrug and wave a hand. Or, at least you think you do. Your arms are burning like hells of fucking crazy. "Yeah, yeah," you slur and turn, spitting out the blood that had been pooling on your tongue. “Fuckin’ fine, Bro. Been beaten up a lot worse than this.”

You catch the way his shoulders tense for half a second before he relaxes and the concern vanishes, replaced by the same impassive look you like pretend you can emulate.

“Whatever you say, kid.”

“Don't call me that.”

Reaching out, you latch onto his arm and he helps you get your feet back up under you. God, your ass is killing you but you'd rather throw yourself off the roof than say that out loud. Besides, he can probably tell by the way you wince and your hand flies back to settle over your tailbone.

He doesn't say anything though and you tip your head down in a small, grateful nod.

He gets it. He understands. There's some shit you just don't talk about and your bruising ass is definitely one of those things. On the list of things to talk about, that one is so far out into fucking paradox space you can't even handle it.

When you make it back down the stairs, he leads you to the bathroom and you ease yourself up onto the sink counter. You used to think about skipping this part—the clean-up where it felt like he babied you. You never did though and now you're glad because this is just another part of what the two of you do. He beats the tar out of you and then drags you back down here to clean you up with the same hands that had made you bleed.

You hadn't really understood why he was so diligent with it until you'd landed your first hit on him and sliced open his side. There'd been a lot more blood than you'd thought there would be and once he calmed you down enough, you'd snatched the antiseptic from his hands and taken care of it yourself. You'd needed that in a way you still couldn't fully explain. It was blood you'd spilled with your own hands—his blood—and you'd take responsibility for that in any way you could. It didn’t matter if the strife had been for fun or to burn out pent up frustrations, when it was all over, you took care of what you'd broken and that was just how both of you worked.

You hadn't questioned it since.

You let him tip your head to the side without complaint and seal your lips when he raises the cotton ball. It burns like hell but you don't flinch, long since used to the shock of cold and the sting but when he pulls it back and his frown deepens, you can't help but lick your lips.

“What.”

“Lotta blood,” he mumbles, digging around in the cabinet. “Think it cut through, you spit out a lot up there.”

You nod and turn, reaching for the handheld mirror you keep on the sink for this exact purpose. In your reflection you can already see the skin on your jaw darkening, taking on the soft purple tint you're used to underneath the sweat and dust. It'll be a good one once it's done doing its thing and you want to groan just thinking about how it's going to be to sleep on the wrong side.

At the right corner of your lip is a cut. It's dark, fresh blood oozing out and tentatively, you drop your tongue to the inside and push a little against the tear.

“Fuck.” Your breath hisses out when he skin stretches and a fresh swell of red slides down your chin. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah it did.”

“Stop pushin’ on it then.”

You roll your eyes and reach for a rag to mop your face up with but he beats you to it and runs the water. It's damp when he raises it to your face and you relax into the warmth. He's careful to stay away from the cut itself and you can't help but be a little amused by that.

He's meticulous as fuck when it comes to fixing you up. You can almost guarantee he's never used an actual washcloth on any of your open wounds, favoring paper towels and cotton balls over everything else because they don't hold infection like fabric does. Of all the people to be worried about shit like that, Bro had been the last one you would have suspected but, in a way, you liked it. You liked that he cared that much to be worried about it.

“Gonna tape it up, tip your head.”

You do as he tells you without even needing to think about it. Trusting Bro is automatic and you close your eyes when he dips another cotton ball into the antiseptic. It's swabbed over the cut quickly and a small square of folded gauze is dropped over it before you have a chance to really register the sting. The tear of the tape sounds loud in the bathroom but it's slapped over just as quickly and before you know it, he's pulling away to wash his hands.

Your eyes open and you tilt you lips hesitantly, testing how much you can get away with before that hot, stretched feeling comes back. You don't say anything when you slide off the counter and elbow your way in next to him, dipping your hands under the water and grabbing some soap. That's not really how you do things. There's no ‘thank you,’ no ‘I'm sorry,’ you just go about your day like nothing happened and that's how you like it.

Because you're not sorry and neither is he. There’s really no reason to be.

 

==>

 

You abscond to your room fairly quickly, waving a hand at him when he tells you Chinese is on the menu for tonight. You don't really care. You're not much of a picky eater and he knows Chinese is your favorite. You refuse to look at it as the apology it is though and just shrug it off as usual.

You're not going to ruin a perfectly good meal with some sentimental bullshit.

From your desk you can see Pesterchum lit up and blinking but you ignore it. You don't really feel like dancing around whatever dreams Jade had last night or Rose's questions about how you're handling having a 'normal' life for once. John might be okay but for now, your bed is calling you and you kick off your shoes before falling back onto it.

You feel pretty good for someone that just got their ass handed to them. The mattress is more forgiving than the counter was and you can relax against it without feeling like someone is repeatedly kicking you in the spine, which is always a plus. The blanket beneath you still has the just washed scent of fabric softener and you can't resist the urge to turn and rub your good cheek against it. Jesus, but you fucking love the laundry aisle and even though this isn't just-out-of-the-dryer warm, it's a good second, and you curl up with it pressed against your face.

You can feel your eyelids droop and the naps you usually forgo in favor of chatting with your best bro are starting to look pretty tempting. Texas is pretty shitty for things like that. The sun saps your energy, the humidity tripling that effect, and the slow rumble of the AC in your window is pretty calming when the apartment is this quiet. Bro must be showering because you can't hear the television or his turntables.

It's perfect and you can't really place just when you drift off but you know you must have because the next think you know, you're sitting up on LOHAC.

Except it isn't LOHAC.

Well, that's not entirely true either.

You're definitely sitting on one of the cogwheel bridges and there's definitely lava flowing underneath it but straight ahead the lava stops and there's a blurry line where it pours over some invisible edge and bleeds into a city of some kind. There are skyscrapers in the distance and it looks a hell of a lot like Houston except the sky is green with whorls of red and you can't see the ground but you guess that doesn't matter because you don't think the ground is really the important part.

You're pretty sure the important part is the familiar pair of shades and the gloved hand that's tilted in a two fingered wave across from you.  A smug smile you'd gotten used to is greeting you and, for a moment, you have to fight the urge to panic.

You're not back here. This is just a dream.

“Dirk?”

“In the flesh, bro. How's it goin’?”

In the flesh—?

You shake your head after a second, glancing over him to double check that, yeah, that's Dirk but he looks a little different.

Instead of the dark wifebeater, he's got on a shirt that looks a little too much like Bro's and even though you know they're similar, they're definitely not the same person. There's a hat at his side, grey and worn and exactly like the one you'd yanked off earlier. Next to it is a red mask, something you're pretty sure would be more at home in one of those apocalypse movies they keep showing trailers for. His arms are hooked over a metal rail, his feet hanging down the side of one of those buildings and he looks pretty at home over there.

“Weird dream,” you mutter. “That your planet?”

“Yep, welcome to LOTAK. Well, kind of.”

His smile is teasing, if not a little flat, and you roll your eyes. “Welcome to LOHAC, kind of,” you return, biting back a smile of your own when he laughs.

“Yeah, sure. But hey, we need to have a chat, you and I. Call it a heart to heart, heart to time, whatever you want but it's serious.”

“You sound so serious, bro, it's hard to really comprehend the serious nature of this seemingly serious conversation we're about to have.”

It's his turn to roll his eyes and you don't miss a beat in returning the gesture when he flips you off.

“You can joke all you want but let's get something straight here. You're probably not going to see me again—not like this anyway. You remember that talk we had about our Bros?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, that's important here because we're both going to be finishing up something the game left hanging a little bit.”

“Are you going to enlighten me as to what this oh-so-serious thing that's been left hanging is or just do a couple laps around the whole fucking entirety of paradox space before you get there?”

“Man, I forgot how awesome it was chatting with you. Really, it's just so spectacular. It's ridiculous. I can't believe Hal is missing this prime chance to rub it in my face what a dick you actually are.”

You just shrug. “Yeah, well, same goes for you, asshole.”

There's a moment of silence where you can see his smile and you know he can see yours and you just take in the moment. Dirk's cool. You're cool. You won't admit it but you do kind of miss talking to people other than Rose that can give back just as much shit as you can give.

“Okay, enough of that shit. The only thing I can say is keep an open mind and don't be a total ignoramus, but I know that's impossible so I'm not going to hold my breath on that one.”

“You're seriously doing this vague dreamy shit?”

“I am seriously doing this vague dreamy shit.”

“Why.”

It's not so much a question as an exasperated demand, and he knows it, but he just ignores you and reaches for the mask at his side. The white of his shirt blurs for a second, static making it fuzz and twist and when you blink he's back to the black wife beater and his face is obscured by the red of the mask. When he speaks, his voice is filtered, coming out with that raspy sound you hear in the movies. “Think your dinner is here so you better get going.”

And when he stands you kind of want to ask him to wait, ask what the hell he was going on about because when he raises a hand to wave at you, it feels less like some cheap dream joke and more like reality. It feels final somehow, like what he said about not seeing him again was real and even though you'd already known you wouldn't, it still kind of hurts.

You don't say anything though, just raise your hand and give him some lame version of the smug smirk he's so good at and let the heavy feeling push down on your shoulders.

A single blink is all it takes and the heat from LOHAC is gone, replaced by the cool air moving in from the AC and you're rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You can't have been out that long, your mouth doesn't have that thick, gross feeling that real sleep always leaves you with and you roll over onto your back.

...keep an open mind?

Well, you've never had a problem with that and even if you had, that game would have blown it right out of the water. But why the fuck would he make a point of talking about it?

As you slide out of bed, you let it go for other, more important things. Like the food that's supposedly waiting for you and where you can get some Advil because your lip is starting to swell and you don't do that whole drooling thing. There is just no way.

 

==>

 

It's three days before you even dream again.

You've slept plenty, having little more to do than fuck around on Pesterchum and strife but the summer has peaked and the heat is killing the rattling machine in your window. You're really just waiting for it to take a shit and finally kick the bucket, to be honest, but you're going to soak up every ounce of cool air it can muster before then. You really don't miss the days of walking around as naked as possible, carrying one of those shitty paper fans everywhere because you'd probably collapse from heatstroke if you even considered putting boxers on.

Unfortunately, your reveling in the cold air is cut short by a familiar warmth and you open your eyes to the red heat of LOHAC once again.

This time though, the bridge is facing the other direction and the cogs trail off onto a gray street. The lava doesn't drop down into whatever abyss it'd gone into the last time but just vanishes the second it hits whatever wall is keeping the two places separated. The city reminds you a bit of LOTAK but it's dusty and instead of looking across the skyscrapers, you're looking up at them from the ground. The buildings are crumbling, there's no red-green sky, and there's no Dirk in sight.

Sighing, you stand and brush yourself off, pausing when your hands hit the skin of your chest and you glance down to find the same pair of shorts you'd fallen asleep in. You're not sure why but you'd been expecting the red pajamas from your god tier outfit. It's almost disappointing in a way and a relief in another. The game is over and you don't have to worry about all the shit that came with it but damn, those pants had been really comfortable and you miss them more than you’re willing to admit.

Shaking away those thoughts, you step forward and make your way to the end of the bridge, hesitating before jumping off and glancing back. LOHAC is still there but it looks a little blurred and distant, like you jumped further than just a step or two.

It's kind of unsettling.

Later you might come back and give that feeling a better investigation but, for now, there's a street and a city and you have a feeling you're supposed to keep going forward instead of getting caught up in junky theories. You're honestly not even sure why you'd even wanted to investigate but you're going to blame it on John and the conversation you'd had about that sleuthing web comic yesterday.

Yep. It's all Egbert's fault.

At least, that's what you keep telling yourself as you move away from the warmth spreading out from LOHAC and into something that's a little cooler. It's not chilled really; it's just kind of like you put your hands under water that isn't much of anything after getting out of the sun. It's just a lukewarm feeling. There's no sound beyond your quiet steps and breathing. There's rubble piled here and there and you do your best to skirt around it, climbing over the bigger piles you can't really miss because of walls and smashed up cars.

Really, what the hell is this place and why is it connected to LOHAC? You're about to turn back and say fuck it when something to the right catches your eye and you end up staring.

It's your apartment building.

Well, Bro's apartment building since he's the one that pays the rent but whatever. It's home and it's here in this shit town and there's a light on, way at the top. It seems a little too easy to you but you step through the lobby doors, the glass gone and you briefly wonder where it went. There are no shards scattered on the floor, you haven't stepped on anything sharp, it's just gone. And so is the elevator.

You guess you're taking the stairs this time. You don't really mind though because it gives you some time to think.

This is just a dream so, logically, you know that no matter what you find up in this weird gray building in the apartment that should be yours, it'll go away when you wake up. It's not even a deal so there's no way it could be a big deal. That doesn't do much to reassure you though and for a second you consider just pinching yourself to see if you'll wake up. There's no reason to do this. You don't have to go up there. You can ignore the way it feels like a good idea and all of that other mystical shit you don't like to think about.

But Dirk's words nag at you and you hate that they feel just as orange as that stupid hat on his shirt. He is literally the sticky-sweet orange soda ruining your apple juice. You hate that you trust him and you hate that you're going to keep walking and getting closer to the apartment. You don't even know why you started on the idea that you wouldn't. He'd said exactly the right thing you'd remember to bait you into doing exactly what you are right now.

“Stupid fucker,” you grumble, stepping out of the stairwell on the right floor.

Your place is at the end and the hall is kind of dimmed, more so than the stairs were, and you're not sure why but that creeps you out. Maybe it's the light filtering through the door at the end. Maybe it's the hollow feeling all of this gives you. You don't know and you don't really care. You have to walk down the stupid hallway to the stupid to door anyway so there's no sense in even wondering.

And that's exactly what you do.

You move out into the hall, sidestep crumbled bits of sheetrock and ceiling tiles, and hurry down toward the light. As you draw closer, the darkness behind you gets colder and you swear you can hear something in it. You know it's childish and dumb but you run. You don't waste a second, skidding into the door and gripping the handle to throw it open just enough to slip through before slamming it shut again.

Your heart is pounding in your ears as you flatten yourself against the hard wood as you take a slow breath. “Jesus fuck,” you mumble. “What the hell was that?” You haven't panicked in months, since the last time you'd had a nightmare about one of the enemy Daves. You haven't been scared of the dark since you were four and Bro had dragged you out in the middle of the night to tell you there were no monsters and if there were, he'd teach you how to cut them down.

This though... it was—

“Dave?”

You jump a mile, the hair on the back of your neck shooting straight up and you're pretty sure you made a sound way too close to a shriek for your pride to really handle. Your fists are up before you can really even glance around the room and you're ready for whatever is going to come at you and—

—Wait.

“Bro?”

You sound a little strained but you don't really care, too busy looking around the room to really give much of a fuck. It's exactly the same as you'd left it before going to sleep that night. The television is even playing the same dumb movie and you can still smell the popcorn you'd popped just so you could have something to do while Bro went out to buy beer.

The same beer currently in his hand.

“You okay, kid?” He's standing a few feet away and you can see his eyebrows, high over the shades, and you can almost guarantee he's wondering what the fuck is up with you right now.

“Don't call me that,” you snap. It's lacking bite though, more of an automatic protest than anything else, and you slump against the door. “What the hell is this? What are you doing here?”

“Think I should be asking you the same thing.”

You're not in the mood for his cryptic, half-answered horseshit and you tell him so. “No, fuck you, this is my dream, I ask the questions. What are you doing here? And why is everything in here the same but outside it looks like the set of some shit-rated post-apocalyptic crap reel they'd call a movie?”

He's quiet for a minute and you watch as his brow pinches but you can't place what exactly the emotion behind it is. You want to say confusion but you've learned to not make too much of your guesses where he's involved.

“Kid— Dave, think you need to take a look around. This isn’t your dream. It's mine.”

 

==>

 

A beer is exactly what you needed, dream-beer or not. It's cold and tastes like shit but it brings you back down from the surreal jumble of thoughts your little talk with Bro had brought about. After a good bit of deliberation you'd both decided you're sharing a dream, neither one of you willing to back down that this was your dream and yours alone. He'd been a little surprised to hear about LOHAC and you'd been equally so when he'd mentioned he always dreams like this, that he always had.

And that's where shit had gotten really strange.

You'd never talked to Bro much about the game and what happened in it. You'd seen the twisted pink line on his chest more than once and he'd seen the varied white marks on your body. Talking about them was never factored in. They just were. They were memories and they'd been laid to rest a long time ago and you were pretty sure he was just as opposed to rubbing salt in those wounds as you were.

But you'd figured it was okay to break that rule just this once.

Bro had never had a dreamself, apparently. He'd been able to play the game and be a part of it in some kind of way that you still didn't understand but he'd never been considered a 'player' and only players had dreamselves.

He'd had this.

Whatever this was.

It'd always been gray and run down, apparently, and he'd never bothered to venture past the edge of the city.

(You're not sure you really believe that but you weren't going to call him out on it.)

Instead, you'd told him about Dirk and LOTAK and how the skyline looked a lot like this, like Houston, and how the sky had been green with discs of red and the buildings had been in one piece. You'd paused when you'd started to tell him what Dirk had said about keeping an open mind, but skipped over it with a shrug, going on the talk about the lava and how it had disappeared. He'd listened quietly, sipping his beer and had little input just like you'd figured he would and it was nice because it was normal and it helped you to stop glancing at the fucking door like something was going to eat you because you weren't a baby and there was nothing out there.

“Sharing a dream.”

You nod and shrug, settling back against the futon. “Looks like it. Not the weirdest shit we've ever run into though so I guess it's whatever, really.”

He doesn't say anything and goes back to his beer but you can't help a frown. You're not stupid. You might pretend to be but you're actually a little more observant than most people give you credit for. You have to be. You live with Bro and his smuppet traps for fuck's sake. Unless you want a face full of squishy, rainbow-colored ass, you pay attention. And this place looks way too much like LOTAK, and Bro already looks way too much like Dirk for that to be purely coincidence. You just have no idea what it even means.

The sharing dreams thing is kind of cool, for now at least, and reminds you of all those bubbles you passed through on the meteor. It could get hells of awkward easily but you'll worry about that later. You can't manipulate this area anyway. You tried. It didn't work.

You are not a dream Jedi.

You wonder if Bro can but you're not going to ask him right now. Maybe later when you've figured a bit more of this shit out and you don't feel like a fuckass for worrying this is going to turn into some kind of weird puppet-fueled porno.

You really need to calm your shit.

Standing, you step around the futon and glance around the room again before going to get another beer. There's nothing different and you can't decide if that's cool or just really fucking unsettling.

...Not a damn thing. It's a perfect replica right down to your cereal bowl from that morning in the sink and the towel on the floor that you'd never picked up.

But how?

You know that, ectobiologically speaking, Bro and Dirk are kind of the same but kind of not at the same time. It'd make sense that there'd be similar shit in their lives and that Dirk would look like a younger Bro, but the game never went into too much detail about why Bro and Mr. E and Mom and Grandpa Harley weren't actual players but could access the planets and all of that good shit. You understood why they'd each died, not that it made it any better or easier to handle, but the game was that, a game, and games were a hell of a lot more cruel than you'd ever really paid attention to.

He wasn't a sprite, that was for damn sure, but what then...

You remember Rose talking about different kinds of sessions once and when you look up, out the window at the sink you can't help but wonder if this is one of those sessions, or even a kind of offshoot from yours. Maybe Bro was in some kind of medium where the rules of the game differed and this was his planet but the life it should have had was with Dirk, the actual player?

You shake your head. This is all bullshit. You're probably over thinking all of it and you blame that fucking game. For making you think and worry and lose absolutely everything just so it could reset and drop you right back where you'd started. You hate it and the headache it gives you but you can't let this go.

This is Bro. Your Bro. And you can't just let this shit slide if he's involved.

After a long minute of debating with yourself you turn to ask him if any of that shit you just thought makes any sense but there's nothing there and when you blink you're staring up at the dimmed ceiling of your room, the whirring of the AC in the corner and your sheets wrapped around your legs.

Just a dream...

You'd known that but it had felt real. It still feels real. You didn't imagine the panic, you didn't imagine Bro. You didn't make up that world.

But a part of you knows that you could have. You've seen all of that stuff before, even if it's all just memories from here and there and you've dreamed of stranger shit. Shit you'd never even seen or heard of.

So, which was it...?

You didn't know and you couldn't ask Bro about it because what if it really was only just a dream?

 

==>

 

After a week you're a little more relaxed.

You've gotten used to waking up and going about your usual routine. Bro hasn't said anything about any strange dreams and you haven't either. You strife, you dick around with your turntables, and you've started looking for a job.

But at night it's a different story.

You've gotten better with walking down the hall way. It doesn't feel like it's closing in on you anymore and you don't mind the short walk from LOHAC. Bro's always waiting, and after those first couple nights, the why and how of whatever the fuck was going on started to seem less and less important and more like a string of distant memories. Nothing bad had happened so far and the two of you agreed that after everything else, you were probably good to let your guard down for a minute or two.

It was over, after all, and that was that.

It still nagged at you though, how easy this seemed, but it wasn’t that hard to forget and right now you had better things to think about. Like how best to get Bro to change the channel because you were not watching any more cartoons. If you had to hear one more stupid, cheesy voice you were going to kill something.

“Change it, Jesus titty-fucking Christ, please, Bro.”

“No taste, kid.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?”

The smile he gives you is tiny, hardly a turn of the lips but you're getting pretty used to it. It's playful and when you wake up you always look for it, despite knowing you probably won’t catch another one until you fall asleep again. “At least one more.”

“Fucking asshole,” you mutter but you have to hide your own smile behind a drink. It doesn't fool him, not that you really thought it would, but he relents and switches the TV to something less grating.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

You shrug. “Same as ever.”

The two of you have gotten into a routine. He asks how you are and you talk and then you ask how he is and he talks. It's simple but it's not something either of you have ever really had. You've never really been able to explain just how you and Bro communicate. John doesn't get it and you're pretty sure Jade just doesn't think to care, which is cool. You're kind of glad. Rose is probably the only one that even remotely understands because it's a lot like the passive-aggressive shit she and her mom are always playing around with.

You don't talk. You fight out your feelings and crush whatever is bothering you in sweat and dust in a strife. That's how it is, has been, and probably always will be.

But god damn, it is kind of nice to just sit and have a regular talk like a regular person with a regular family. Dream-Bro is easy to talk to. He's actually interested, something you hadn't really realized you were missing until he'd bothered to stop and ask if something was bothering you.

For a minute, you'd actually been pretty upset.

…Had he even cared?

The smack you'd gotten for it had cleared it up though because, fuck yeah he cared. He wouldn't have put up with your shit for so long if he didn't and Dream-Bro did a pretty good job of reassuring you that Regular-Bro cared. He could list a lot of shit about you, anywhere from your favorite color to how much you seemed to really hate Tom and Jerry. The only reason you'd accepted any of that though was because you didn't want to think about the other side of this and how you could be deluding yourself into thinking he cared because you're you and of course you know all that stuff about yourself. You could have dreamed it up because this is a dream.

But you're not thinking about that. You're answering his question and not making him wait around while you stare into space like a total dumbass.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Kind of wish things were a little different on the outside though, you know? I swear to God if I have to take any more of your cryptic mind games bullshit I'm going to have a bonfire fueled by smuppet ass and the tears of all your potential freak customers.”

His laugh is short and you still haven't gotten over how warm it is. If you didn't know better, you'd make it your mission to get a laugh out of him on the Regular side but a small part of you is worried it won't be what you're expecting so you'll just stick with this. It's safe in a weird way.

“You're too easy to tease. Got the best reactions, it's hard to pass up a chance.”

“Oh, so this is my fault?”

He just smiles around the rim of the bottle and nods. “Yep.”

You roll your eyes and slump down a bit. “Yeah, yeah, asshole. Sure it is. Sure.”

His hand lands on the top of your head and you glance over. You don't have your shades on; unlike someone, you don't sleep in them but you'd considered it. You didn't want to break them though, and knowing your luck you'd wake up with an eyeful of broken black lenses and blood. You'll just live with him seeing them.

“Do you need something?”

He ruffles your hair, shrugging. “Depends.”

“On?”

“You gonna bitch if I ask you to get me another beer?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I don't need nothin’.” He stands and you watch as he walks over to the kitchen to deposit the bottle on the counter and pull a new one from the fridge. He brings out a second one and twists the caps off, tossing both in the trash bin before coming back over to sit next to you. “Figured I'd save you the trouble.”

“Now I know this is definitely a dream.” You smile but you're serious. You're used to getting your own shit and though Bro's never been one to actually neglect you on a really impacting scale, he never went out of his way to make life easy for you either.

You appreciate it but this is just... kind of nice.

It's weird but it's nice, and you finish off your last drink before grabbing the fresh one. “Thanks.”

You spend the rest of the night just sitting around drinking with him.

Eventually you end up slumped over, leaning on his shoulder while he explains some show about ponies to you. You'd given up telling him to stop watching cartoons, the warmth from the couple bottles lined up neatly on the floor relaxing you enough to not care. To be honest, you're not sure why you always give him shit for it anyway. If cartoons make him happy, who the fuck are you to say he can't watch them? Egbert watches that stupid Con-Air movie and you draw dumb comics. Rose writes wizard porn, which you kind of think is in a totally different category than what you were talking about but it's roughly the same thing for her. And Jade, well, Jade does whatever the hell Jade wants and that's cool with you.

Maybe you're a little hard on him.

You'd always wanted to be like him, live up to the expectations, but after his death, the game, everything, you finally realized they were never actually his expectations and maybe you’d been the one expecting things out of him. Yeah, he'd had a few—that you had some manners even if you didn't put them into use very often, that you could defend yourself and beat the literal shit out of anyone that messed with you, that you didn't judge people on stupid garbage like a lot of your peers. They weren't bad things. They weren't even that heavy in retrospect. But you'd always had a knack for being a little dramatic and at thirteen, it’d seemed like there was a hell of a lot more than that. It'd been easier to push it all off on Bro, that it was his problem, his wants and not yours.

You'd spent ages calling him weird, a creep, even though you'd thought he was the coolest dude you'd ever met. Which, looking back, made no fucking sense whatsoever. You’d wanted his attention and done a lot of dumb, childish shit to get it, like some little asshole picking on the girl in the playground when you were five because you had a crush on her and wanted her to notice you.

And you didn't have a crush on Bro. It was stupid and, God, you were such a little prick sometimes you're surprised he actually put up with how much of a little brat you were.

“Can practically hear you thinkin’.”

“Yeah, sorry, my bad. Go back to talking about your rainbow ponies there, slick.”

You feel him shift and look up. He's staring down, one eyebrow arched in your direction and his shades have vanished. You wonder if maybe they fell off in his sleep or if he’d just wanted them off. You've only gotten a glimpse of his eyes once or twice and usually by accident and you've always wanted to actually ask why he keeps them covered, if your ideas are right, but you never pluck up the guts to really do it. Your best guess is that he doesn't like how they make him so easy to read. They ruin his impassive deal the second they get out in the open and you imagine it kills him. It's hard to be in control of a situation when others are reading you like some trashy dime store romance.

And Bro is the king of the poker face.

You love them though. They're soft and warm and they take him from impassive asshole to a depth you have a hard time getting over. He's a lot more than people give him credit for and a glance under those stupid anime shades proves it.

You know you should probably say something. This gazing into his eyes thing is probably the cheesiest shit you've pulled in a long time but you don't really care. It's a fucking dream. It's not like it really matters in the long run and you don't get this chance very often. So you're going to look and you're going to ignore the way you want to smile when he doesn't turn away or immediately find something to cover them with.

You're also going to ignore the way you raise your hand and push his hair back. Without the hat it falls forward a little bit and drops down over his forehead. It's not bad, it just makes you want to play with it and you really can't have that because, as you previously stated, you don't have a crush on Bro, no matter how much you might be acting like it.

You're just curious.

He raised you, taught you everything you needed to know and shared absolutely none of himself in the process. He was that asshole that dropped smuppets on you and set up booby traps to catch you when you were six and had to take a piss in the middle of the night. He was that guy. Your mysterious Bro and you'd never questioned it. You'd just gone along with his whole irony deal and tried to fit in the footprints he left behind as best you could.

So, you think it's kind of understandable to be curious. Why shouldn't you be? You're not a kid anymore and if you find your thoughts taking jumping a ride in a truck to the middle of butt-fuck nowhere and how-do-your-hands-feel, then, well, you're not going to think about that either.

Because this is your Bro and for the third time, you do not have a crush on him.

 

==>

 

You are calm. You are definitely calm.

You are also a liar. And an idiot. And a raging, dimwitted fuckass.

And an idiot.

And where is Karkat when you actually need someone to tell you how stupid you are for once? Of all the times you could use his shouty, annoying-as-all-fuck nonsense, he's not around because, oh, that's right, fucking trolls don't exist on Earth and he's signed out of Trollian.

Fucking great.

Rubbing your hands over your face, you let out a loud sigh. It's late and you should probably be asleep but you can't bring yourself to actually lie down and try to rest. You know Bro will be waiting for you. He'll ask how your day was, if you're doing all right and the rest of that silly shit the two of you have gotten into doing. He'll smile, you'll smile and jesus fuck it'd be great if someone just shot you already, put you out of your misery before you drowned in a pool of your own, sentimentally induced vomit.

God, you’re dumb.

Sliding off the bed, you make your way toward the door and peek out. The lights are flipped off and you slip out easily, darting to the bathroom before Bro can possibly notice you're up and moving around. You're pretty sure he's asleep but Rule #1 of the Strider household is to always expect the unexpected.

There's nothing unexpected, however, and you make it into the bathroom without a hitch. You slide the lock into place, start the water and strip off your boxers in less than a minute. The water is cool against your skin, washing the sweat away and you slump against tile.

There's something innately depressing about realizing that you've been lying to yourself.

Well, perhaps that's not completely true. You didn't exactly lie, you just didn't tell the whole truth in an interest of, you know, keeping your fucking sanity together. Of all the things you've ever figured, you figure this one is the most easily accepted one ever. Because, you've got to say, you've done some dumb shit but none of that compares to how spectacularly you have shit on your life this time.

You do, in fact, have a crush on Bro and from the way your day went, you'd say it's a pretty big one. No one should be allowed to be that damn seductive without even realizing it.

Actually, you're pretty sure he's not. You're probably just letting your imagination get the better of you and thinking with your dick instead of anything even resembling your brain. Because, logically, you know having the shit kicked out of you on your roof shouldn't be sexy. Having him wrap up your split knuckles with Band-Aids and Neosporin shouldn't have been so appealing. He shouldn't fucking look like Adonis when he's wiping sweat and dirt and grime off of his cheeks.

Because really, sweat is pretty nasty. You went to school. You lived on a meteor with trolls, okay? Sweat is nasty, end of story.

Or not.

Because, somehow, Bro makes it look fine and you're ready to snap the rose tinted glasses your shades were obviously replaced with and hitch a one way ride to the junction of Reality Check and Wake-the-fuck-up-Ville. He's your bro and even though you've seen some weird shit, that should actually mean something. That should mean he's off limits for these kinds of feelings. That should mean there's no way you could possibly find him attractive beyond the objective ‘yeah, dude, my bro is totally one handsome motherfucker.’

But it's hard because reality is mixing with fiction and even though it's only been a few days, it's hard to look at Bro in the waking world and not see the guy that laughs at stupid shit and explains some dumb kid's show to you.

You press your forehead to the tile and sigh, considering the merits of never leaving the shower.

'Should, should, should' but you're having a hard time finding the 'can' in there and, oddly, it doesn't bother you as much as you thought it would. When you stop and look at it, it doesn't seem so bad to want to spend the rest of forever here, with Bro, strifing on the roof and dodging traps. It's not so bad and you know you’re putting up a front to yourself and, God, how pathetic is that?

Is it really bad to want something like that? Maybe. You’re not sure but you still want it.

And you think it's kind of funny that most people want to wake up with someone next to them because you're starting to think the important part is falling asleep next to them and that's what really makes the waking up part seem so good. It's not a full song without that heartbeat that puts you to sleep and the soft breathing that keeps you that way. Without that, it's just a smile in the morning and that's great, but it's missing something and you’re starting to realize that one a completely different level. Your opinion is probably all screwed up but as much as you like talking to Bro at night, you'd trade it in a minute to actually fall asleep next to him. You want that to be your reality, not to escape to some world you're not even sure is real.

Shaking your head, you grab the shampoo and lather up your hair, falling into your usual shower routine. It's comforting in some weird kind of way, probably because it's something you can do on autopilot—lather, rinse, soap, scrub, rinse—and there's no need to think. Not that it really helps much, you've never really been able to turn the thoughts on and off like that. It’s a pity, too. That skill is so wasted on Egbert. You're still waiting for him to figure out how to turn them on.

Glancing down, you rub your foot against the stall floor. Maybe it's time to ask Bro about it?

You get to the end of the hall, a towel still slung over your hair, legs damp, before you suddenly can't and you hurry back to your room.

Tomorrow—you'll ask him tomorrow. For now though, you're going to lie on your bed and hopefully do more than stare at the ceiling.

Thankfully, your blankets are soft and when you sink down, you can feel yourself relaxing. A yawn escapes and you settle back, ignoring the way the hair on the back of your neck sticks to your skin and how your legs are actually a little cold, the little drops of water still clinging to them cooling and drying the cool air from the AC where your boxers don’t touch. It's not too bad though and you can feel yourself drifting into that heavy feeling, where your eyelids jump and you keep shifting around until you give up and they slip closed.

And then they open.

It's kind of strange because you're not tired anymore. Maybe that's not so strange considering this is a dream but it's kind of throwing you for a loop to have been yawning then be fine jogging down the same, dusky gray street. It's probably because it feels so real. You're not going to complain though. You'd rather just run and not waste time. Even the stairs don't really give you a problem and today you take them two at a time until your calves start to feel a little wobbly and you stumble through the door.

Bro's sitting in his usual spot and he glances over when you shut the door. There's two beers set out, the sweat on the side of the bottle telling you he's been waiting and when you drop down you give him an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, couldn't fall asleep.”

“S’cool.”

You shrug, lifting the bottle. You let the water drip off, down to the carpet, before raising it to your lips and taking a slow sip. “Why don't we ever do this outside?”

“You're too young to drink.”

“Like that's ever stopped anything we do.” He just shrugs but you get a small nod, at least. “I'm serious. Why don't we just sit and have a drink? It's not like it's some big thing we need to make a federal fucking issue out of. It's just a beer.”

You can feel him shift beside, you and you watch his legs stretch out as he crosses one ankle over the other. “Not sure, just never know if shit's gonna bug you or not.”

“Why the fuck would it bug me?”

“Dunno. Spendin’ time with your bro instead of chattin’ with your friends?” He shrugs. “Not really gonna ask you to do that.”

You guess that's pretty valid as far as reasons go and you can't say you weren't a little shit the past couple of years. Well, the years before the game, at least, when you didn't feel like you'd lived a lifetime plus. You must have been frowning at your beer a lot longer than you'd thought because you hardly noticed him move and the hand that lands on your shoulder makes you jump.

“What's eatin’ you?”

You consider not telling him because even if he's Dream-Bro, he's still Bro. He's still got the same face, the same voice, the same everything. But he asked and he's interested and even as you tell yourself it's a bad idea, you lean to the side and let him pluck the bottle from your hands. He sets it down and when he settles back, one arm lifted, you move over to rest your head against his chest.

“You ever have some feelings you probably shouldn't?”

“Once or twice.”

You nod and close your eyes. “Got a few of those, pretty sure they're seven kinds of fucked up in four hundred different but somehow related to shitty excuses and downright fucking afraid kind of ways.” You know that doesn't make sense but he doesn't seem to mind, and when he nods you continue.

“It's not fair, you know? After all the other shit, it'd be kind of cool to just have some normal feelings for someone that isn't directly related to you in a lot of ectobio-whatever-ical kinds of ways I'm not going to think about. Because I don't really care. It's slime and, yeah, that's kind of fucking really weird and I'm glad I'm not the one that had to hit the buttons but still. It's just that.”

“You mean—”

“Yeah, I mean you, dumbass.” Whatever bite you'd started off with fades pretty rapidly and you want to roll your eyes at yourself but you don't want to open them and possibly give into the temptation to look up. You're not really sure what you'd find but you're also not sure you're ready to be rejected by a dream you probably put together for whatever reason. “You're fucking perfect. It's really lame, you know? You're supposed to be bad in all these ironic ways and yeah, you like those stupid smuppets but that's not exactly what I'd qualify as bad or anything. It's just shit you like and that's cool. If it makes you happy, cool.”

You're getting a little off topic but you can't say you really mind because talking about his phallic snouted puppet monstrosities is a lot less stupid than harping on how you think he's so great. Not that it was ever any big secret, you guess. It was pretty obvious, to be honest and it almost makes you cringe to think of how much you tried to be just like him.

“Dave.”

“What.”

“Look at me.”

He does a great job of making you feel like a kid sometimes but, this time, you guess you're kind of acting like one and you sigh, opening your eyes before tipping your head up to look at him. “Okay, I'm looking at your ugly mug. Why am I doing this again?”

When he leans in, you think you get it but you're still pretty damn surprised when his lips brush over yours and holy shit he's actually kissing you.

Stupid cliché fucker, pulling a fast one on you with all this sappy bullshit...

It doesn't stop you from leaning up into the kiss though, or from curling your fingers in his shirt when his tongue dips down and pushes lightly against your bottom lip. It doesn't really stop anything, to be honest, because you just really don't give two shits.

Bro is kissing you.

He's warm and his hands are sliding to your sides and this is just one of those things. The kind that feels right, perfect, like his hands were made to fit against your hips and his lap is just the right size for you. And it's almost heartbreaking in a way you didn't really anticipate because when he pulls back and rests his forehead against yours, it occurs to you that this could be a thing that never actually happens outside of this fabricated escape.

He's quiet and so are you, stewing in your thoughts until you can't help but shake your head at yourself and you lean back.

“Hm.”

You shrug, a small, strained smile playing at your lips as you let out a shaky laugh. “Dude, this is like some bad take on Roses's wizard pornos. Cliché much? I mean, seriously, these dreams are weird enough but then, oh God, feelings jam on the imaginary couch with the imaginary beer and my studly older dream-bro swoops down for the kiss at the exact perfect moment. So cool, dude. I mean, fucking really, what even is this shit that is happening in this place. There is too much shit for too little place and there is way, way too much happening going on for fuck even knows what. It's dumb enough to fall in love with your bro, man, but really? One that may or may not be a fabrication of my apparently way over active imagination? That's just... just, wow. I can't. I literally cannot even right now. We are that bad, you have seriously reduced me to shitty internet meme level. Thanks.”

You don't get a reply. Or an apology. Not that you really expected the latter but something would have been good. But you can't really complain, you guess, because even though he apparently doesn't really care how he's turning you into a pile of stupid, over-analyzed tropes and other bullshit, he's kissing you again and, well, what's there to complain about?

It's Bro and that's just how he is. That's just how you are and, dream world or not, that's always going to be pretty okay with you.

 

==>

 

He knows you're distracted. You can tell in the way he's throwing some cheap shots at you in an attempt to get you to focus before you get a repeat of your little hair-pulling incident. You're tempted to do it again just because. But that would require getting close to him and you doubt he's going to allow that while your swings are sloppy and your feet are sliding around on the roof.

He's getting frustrated with you.

Good, because you're frustrated too.

You're frustrated that after that kiss the dreams stopped. You're frustrated that he hasn't said more than ten words to you in a week. You're frustrated because he's a prime specimen of complete and utter jackass and you have no actual viable reason for even thinking that because he didn't fucking do anything to you and you're just being a bitch.

His hand catches your wrist and you tumble forward. Your sword hits the ground, the sound ringing in the stillness and making your ears ache for a split second. He doesn't do anything though and after a moment just lets you go and stalks back to the door.

“When you got your shit together, we'll try again.”

Anger flares in your chest and you want to throw something at him but the only thing in reach is the katana at your side and there's no way you're that dumb. You settle for slamming your hands against the ground and panting down at the marks it leaves on your skin.

God, that was stupid. Your fists ache now but it's hard to really care because at least it's better than looking at his face. He didn't need to take the shades off for you to pick up on the disappointment and that just makes your blood boil even more. Is it not okay for you to have a bad day? Is it not okay for you to be upset and to maybe just not want to look at his stupid fucking face for a few hours because all you want to do is drag him down and put on a repeat of the last dream you had? Apparently not because he's definitely got a stick rammed straight up his ass and that's saying something because the only thing straight about your bro is nothing.

Absolutely fucking nothing.

Picking yourself up, you snatch the sword and rake a hand through your hair as you move through the door and down the stairs. “Fuck him,” you mutter, letting your fingers drag along the wall. “Fuck him and everything else and those stupid dreams because fuck it.”

You don't even bother fighting for the shower and go straight to your room. You strip off you shirt, tossing it at the already full hamper in the corner and store your sword. Then you lean forward and flop face first onto the bed. You don't really care that you're getting sweat and dirt on your pillow. You don't care that your hands are dirty or your shoes are still on. You just really don't care because on the list of shit to care about, having to wash your bedding isn't really much of a major concern. You just want to sleep. You just want to close your eyes and forget about how good it had felt to be held so close and how much it hurts that he hardly even looks at you.

As usual, you don't actually know just when you fell asleep. It's hard to pinpoint the exact moment and all your thoughts are fuzzy for a split second before you blink and the heat from LOHAC rises, making you sigh.

“You look like shit.”

The voice startles you and your head snaps up, eyes landing on a familiar smug face. This time he's in his regular shit and you eye the orange hat on the wife beater. The grey one from before is nowhere in sight and he's got that weird mask in his lap.

“What do you want, Dirk?”

“Testy today, aren't we? I'm just here to talk so chill, man. Just some friendly conversation because clearly you are in dire need of some help.”

You roll your eyes. You seem to be doing that a lot lately but you don't care. “I don't need your help. Thought I wasn’t going to see you again.”

“Oh, and the winner is Mr. Dave fucking Strider with the most generic answer yet. No, you really do, so let's have a talk. I'm going to tell you a story because you apparently do need me again and this is how it’s going down.”

He's grinning and if there wasn't lava and a God-only-knows-how-many-foot drop on his side, you'd probably crawl over there and wipe that stupid look right off his face with your fist. You know he's doing it on purpose because that's what smug assholes do. And, even though you also know that he's really not that much of an asshole, he's doing a bang-up job at this impression. You're really kind of amazed.

(Not really but what the fuck ever.)

“Can you just shut up?”

He ignores you. “So, you know I've got a you-bro too. He's pretty chill and I always wanted to meet him so it was pretty interesting to actually get that chance when the game ended. He did some pretty cool shit, to put it very lightly. Crazy, right? You, being cool. But there was a problem. And, now, I'm telling you this because I know you understand. I'm in your head, remember? So don't bother wasting your breath with some dickish comments. Just listen.”

When he gives you a look you just shrug and wave your hands in an exaggerated 'hurry the fuck up' gesture.

“I fell in love with him.”

It's simple and, yeah, you were kind of expecting it but it's still strange to hear out loud. Even when you'd met Dirk and he'd talked about his bro, it'd hit a little close to home with how infatuated he'd been. Bro this, bro that and he'd never even met the guy.

“Quit that, I can literally hear you thinking over here. The point is, these dreams aren't a bad thing. They were designed to help you iron some emotional shit out as a kind of recovery mode the game puts into effect to make sure you can properly function back in your world. They're not meant to be an escape from reality, Dave. Whatever went down with Bro and whatever you're still moping about, you need to take care of that out there because you've finished your session's recovery mode. Dreams are great and all but you need to be grounded in reality or you'll lose your shit.”

“Then why am I having to put up with you? This is the same kind of dream, right?”

“Yes and no. This is the piece of me you remember that's talking to you. I'm just able to control that because of the lingering effects my god tier powers left.”

You nod, glancing away for a moment. You didn't like touching on the powers the game had given you. They'd been reduced to a nearly worthless level but you could speed yourself up once in a while, kill five or ten minutes here and there without feeling the effects, and you know John could still manipulate the wind to a kind of crazy degree. Rose was under the impression he hadn't lost any of his powers and the two of you had talked about a few different ideas revolving around that.

It wasn't important though. It didn't have much to do with Dirk or Bro or any of the shit going on and, right now, you just weren't inclined to care whether John could do The Windy Thing or not. “Right.”

“Right, so, you need to get it together, man. I'm serious. Go talk to him. He's waiting for it just as much as you are.”

“You—”

“Quiet, fuck, you really do talk way too much and that is really saying something coming from me of all people. I'm well aware of my capacity for protracted conversation but seriously, dude, shut up for a second.” He points at you, shakes his head when you flip him off. “Not cool, bro. But okay, yes. The Bro you talked to? That's the real Bro. He is, in the most literal sense, your Bro. He had a series of the same dreams and the two of you shared them because all of your issues revolve around each other. That's kind of weird admittedly, but hey, I'm not here to judge. The same thing happened with your B2 self and me.”

“You're just here to talk about dumb shit.”

“Sure, if that makes you feel better.” His shoulders slump a little and he gives you a small, strangely fond smile that makes you shift. You're not really comfortable with that look but you're not going to just tell him to stop either.

He looks a lot older for a second and that's kind of unsettling.

“The world you saw over here? Yeah, that's LOTAK but it's his LOTAK, a phantom version of what would have been if he'd played the game. We're connected on some level but it's impossible to tell exactly what he would have faced in the way of challenges and imps because we are, in the end, not at all the same person. Does that make sense?”

“Not really but keep going.”

“That's his world when he sleeps. He never had a dream self, he never went to Derse or Prospit, that's not what his involvement with the game was. He has been sitting in that world alone, waiting for you, do you get it? His world was designed so that once you were finished, you could settle anything you needed because he wanted to be there for you so that he could help you pick up whatever pieces you needed after all of that bullshit we had to slog through. So, just like you and I are connected like this because I'm alive in you, the two of you are connected on something a lot deeper. Your love for each other in a way that goes far past brotherly and it's very clear that even after death, you never let go.”

You shake your head when he stops, lifting your hands to rub over your face. Jesus, he's not making any sense and when the fuck did he get so sentimental?

“I think it's time to wake up.”

“Okay, no, you just went off about connected worlds and shit and that's it? You are seriously the biggest fuckass if you think we're doing more of this cryptic dream shit.”

“I am the fuckass. It's me. In this case anyway, because we're doing this, man. We're making this cryptic dream shit happen. Again.”

“I fucking hate you.”

“Feels are mutual and by that I mean, yes, I'm going to miss you too and yes, I hope you will stop being such a tightass and lighten up. Which is possibly the most ironic thing I have ever said considering just who I am and how tight my ass was not so long ago.”

“Dude, no, just stop.”

He shrugs and you're a little surprised when he actually falls quiet but you're not going to complain. The two of you sit in silence for a long moment and it finally occurs to you that he's not going to say anything until you do. He's waiting and a part of you appreciates that a lot more than you'll ever admit.

“Why did you look like him in that first dream-bubble-shared-world thing?”

“I didn't,” he says simply. “You saw me the way you wanted to see me and if I looked like him, I couldn't see it. That was all you, bro. We're two different people and, yes, I know we had this talk twelve times in-game but it's cool.”

“I made you look like him?”

“As much as I can, anyway. I'm not him and I'm sure you knew that enough to only have a limited amount of misguided manipulation at your hands.”

That made a little sense. It seemed kind of stupid and you sure as hell hadn't meant to do it on purpose, but it made sense. “Right. Sorry.”

“Like I said, it's cool, Dave. It's not something I'd get my panties in a twist over.”

When he stands, you know that's it and your stomach drops. You probably won't see him again. You're from two different universes and no matter how much he yaps about connections, you're not going to hold your breath. There's a lot shit you'd wanted to say to him and a lot more you'd wanted to apologize for. You'd been an ass about a lot of things and he hadn't deserved any of that. You'd put expectations on him he'd had no hope of reaching because, just like he said, he wasn't Bro and you'd taken a long time to really figure that out.

“Hey.”

You glance over and he shakes his head at you, lifting his arms to hook the gas mask around his neck. “I know. Stop beating yourself up over things that don't matter anymore. I know and I forgive you for all of your made-up transgressions.”

“They're not made up.”

“No, I know. I wanted to apologize for a lot of the same shit but I know you forgave me a long time ago.”

Sighing, you pinch the bridge of your nose. “What, you can read my mind now?”

“Something like that. I'm a piece of you, remember? Think of it as more like... interpreting charts your heart creates—kind of like reading a seismograph. When your emotions spike, I can feel it, and the higher the spike, the easier it is to read.”

“Creepy, dude.”

He just shrugs and settles the mask properly over his face before lifting a hand in that same, short two fingered wave. “Time to wake up. See you around, Dave. It's been fun.”

 

==>

 

It's dark when you open your eyes and for a moment you just lay there, a goodbye on the tip of your tongue, looking up at the blurry outline of the fan on your ceiling. That was it then. No more dreams. No more talks?

...No. That wasn't right.

Sitting up, you glance over at the door and rake a hand through your hair before swinging your legs over the side of the bed to stand. It's three steps down the hall and through the door to the front room. Bro's home tonight but even the desire to get this over with, to know if Dirk was telling the truth or if he'd even been real, couldn't seem to speed up your steps any as you creep down the hall.

You're doing it. You're making something happen and the difference between the feeling in the dream and the reality you live in is clear. You can hear your heart pounding in your chest and your breathing, though soft, comes out in shorter bursts than normal, more like when Bro had first dragged you up to the roof for a strife. There'd been that sense of anticipation. You'd had a vague idea of what was going to happen and your stomach had twisted itself into so many knots you almost thought they would get stuck. Your palms had been sweating, just like they are now, and the nostalgia makes you want to smile or lurch for the nearest trash bin.

You're not really that kind of guy. On the outside anyway.

You pause at the door and shake your head at yourself because you know that's just another lie. You are that guy. This wouldn't be so important if you weren't because the sentimentality of a lot of the things that had been going on lately would be completely lost or just pushed aside altogether. And, really, what was wrong with being that guy? You could be the cool dude with a heart.

Pinching the bridge of your nose with one hand, you push the door open with the other. There's just about as much sense in thinking about that now as there is in hoping Bro won't notice you: none. Whatsoever. So you don't bother and just step through, eyes darting to the back of the futon and the soft light coming from Bro's phone.

He's probably got a pencil hanging out of his mouth and the corners of your lips twitch up awkwardly at the thought. His thumbs are a little too big to hit a lot of the keys and it makes his texting slow. Filled with a lot of typos, too, but those can be entertaining, at least. When he's at home, he uses the eraser on a pencil to hit the keys and you really need to get a video of that someday. You swear he's actually a ninja with how well he maneuvers that thing.

Christ, you're really off topic right now. Maybe you should wait until later.

But, no. You're here, Bro's gone still and you know that he knows you're there. Hell, you know that he knows that you know he knows you're there. There is copious amounts of know-age going on and it's all saying ‘no, Dave, just spit it out, Dave, don't fuck this up, Dave.’

Dave, Dave, Dave, don't be a failure.

You ignore the way your hands shake and step around the edge of the futon, moving to stand beside him. He's settled on his back, the shades are on, as usual, but you can tell the second he looks up at you. You've gotten so used to being on your guard that the hair on the back of your neck automatically stands up when he turns his attention to you, but this time, you don't stand up straighter, you don't worry about an attack, you don't worry about any of that shit. You just stand there and look down at him, twisting your fingers in the drawstring on your shorts.

He doesn't say anything when you just stand there or when you finally sit down. He just moves over to give you enough room.

“Hey,” you murmur because what else do you say here?

“Hey.”

“Can we talk?” You've always thought asking that was a load of cliché shit but you seem to be full of that lately. That kiss is still killing you in the best way possible so what's one more?

“Dave.” His tone is gentle but firm and you take that as the hint to shut the fuck up with the dumb questions and get on with this.

“You had them too, didn't you? They were real? I'm not making this shit up? You were real and I was real and we really sat down and talked about all of that stuff and we made that communication shit happen. ...Right?”

He doesn't answer for a moment and when he sits up, you let out a slow breath. Your chest burns and you must have been holding your breath but it doesn't really matter. You're pretty sure you aren't blue because your face is fucking on fire. Embarrassed doesn't even begin to cover this but you can't back down now. You already asked. You already said it. It's too late. You'll have to explain or talk to him, there's no abscond option this time.

Two fingers tap the underside of your chin and you glance over. You wish you had your shades because he's got his and you’re pretty sure he can see just how much you want everything to have been real. You trust Dirk but you don't trust yourself. It wouldn't have been the first time your own mind turned out to be your worst enemy.

“Yeah.”

It's simple, just what you'd expect from Bro and, to anyone else, you figure it would sound kind of empty but it's not. It's actually pretty damn meaningful. “And the—?”

His fingers curl over your mouth and he shakes his head. “It's cool. We're good but I'm gonna kiss you again. Don't ruin it by overthinkin’ a bunch of shit.” When you nod he drops his hand and you turn immediately, moving forward as his arms open up and offer you the place you've been waiting for because even now you're still a bit on the short side and you'll never have the bulk he does.

But you don't mind. You fit right here: your sides and his arms, your arms and his neck, the way your chests press together and your legs slide against his. It's perfect and since you're on a good run of clichés, you'll silently appreciate how it feels like you were made for each other. His hands press against your back and your shoulders relax, the tension fading the second you feel his lips on yours.

He's warm and solid and something must have dampened it when the two of you were asleep because his skin is almost hot against yours and you're almost hesitant to pull back and slide off his shades. You want to see but taking off his shades isn't something you do. Even in a strife you watch out for them because that's just a line the two of you don't cross. He makes the decision for you though, and pulls away when your hand slides up, over his cheek, and your thumb brushes over the edge of one side. His eyes are closed when he drops them off the edge of the futon and slides them under.

You sit still, waiting. There's no need to rush this time. You're not going to wake up, and the realization that no, this isn't just another dream, makes you smile. You've got time and you want to laugh because ever since that game it's felt like time was the one thing always slipping away from you. So when he hesitates, you don't mind because this is one of those things he doesn't do and you understand that out here, in reality, it really is different. There's no safety in the morning, there's no pretending it didn't happen.

You understand that he doesn't cover his eyes because they're sensitive or he dislikes the color. He covers them because that's where the impassive façade cracks and by now you know that better than anyone. You don't comment when he finally settles back and opens them. Instead, you just lift your hands and run your fingers through his hair.

You think he's happy. There's something warm in that weird amber color, even in the barely-there light filtering in from the kitchen. But you also think he's scared in some way. You figure that's good though, you can be scared together because as good at this feels, you're terrified you're going to fuck it up. That's kind of on the back burner though and it's funny because when you kiss him instead of the other way around, that worry slips. Your chest is tight again, in a way you think is good, for once, and your smile is easier this time, full and stretching your cheeks further than they've gone in months—in the waking world, at least.

“I love you.”

And, yeah, it's a little silly. It's probably a little dumb; not the best thing to say, but it's not the worst either and his arms tighten around your waist. His hands glide up your back and his lips move to press against the corner of your mouth. He doesn't have to say it but you don't complain when he does because it's nice to hear it. It's nice to know and someday you'll tell him just how much it meant to you that he'd said it when he did.

Someday...

But not today, because you've got time and for once you're not scared of that fact. Because you've got him right by your side, and this time it's going to be okay.

 

==>

 

_**“Don't sit back and keep your hands clean today.** _   
_**We'll say, maybe we can find a new way.** _   
_**Or create another great cliché.”** _

 


End file.
